


Who Was Dying Since the Day They Were Born

by Lilymoncat



Category: Elder Scrolls, Elder Scrolls IV: Oblivion
Genre: Ascension, Fluff and Angst, Gen, Mantling, Martin becoming Akatosh, Other, Self-Esteem Issues, Self-Sacrifice, The Author Regrets Nothing, This Is Why We Can't Have Nice Things, Walk like Them until They walk like You, altmer Hero of Kvatch|Champion of Cyrodiil, ambiguous sex HoK, breaking the Hero, no happy ending
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-01-02
Updated: 2019-01-02
Packaged: 2019-10-02 21:19:14
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, Major Character Death
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,107
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/17271314
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Lilymoncat/pseuds/Lilymoncat
Summary: "But now I must go.  The Dragon awaits."





	Who Was Dying Since the Day They Were Born

**Author's Note:**

> Inspired by Normal Horoscopes on Tumblr.
> 
> **Leo** : A young king, a king who never should have been. Watery blue eyes, and grit teeth, trying to stay composed till the last moment. A king that would give everything.

They garbed him in ermine and sable, mulberry silk and vucana wool. The robes were heavy, elaborate and stately and meant to proclaim to the world that the wearer was ruler of it. Martin hated them, longed for the plainspun robes he had worn in Kvatch or at Cloud Ruler Temple. His hand fidgeted nervously, played with the Emperor’s signet ring on his finger, worried at the cloth-of-gold used for sleeve trimmings. Today he was to be presented to the Council. Today he was to take a throne that never should have been his. Because the Emperor was dead, his legitimate sons were dead, and he was the only one left. The bastard son, hidden away because of Uriel Septim VII’s visions. Who had fought a war with Oblivion and won.

Now he needed only to light the dragonfires and seal the doors fast.

Long golden fingers, calloused and scarred from wielding bow and sword and staff, caught and stilled his. An amused hum reached Martin’s ear as he looked up at the altmer beside him. His Champion, his friend and companion over these days of turmoil, let go of one of his hands, reached up and tapped a finger to Martin’s lips. The smile Martin received took his breath away.

“Calm. If you tear the cuffs off you’re going to embarrass yourself and let the Council think you’re weak. You’re strong and capable, My Emperor.” Was murmured to him in a voice like cream and honey. Thick and rich and Martin envied that voice, the calm projected in it. It was no wonder the altmer thought themselves superior, when nature or the gods blessed them with so much beauty. His Champion let go of his hand, folded lithe arms around him and pulled him close, propriety forgotten. Martin rested his forehead against the others chest, breathed in the scent of sandalwood and myrrh, both exotic and comfortingly familiar at once. 

The distant part of him that had once worshipped Sanguine brought about the urge to lift his head up, to bite down where long neck and graceful shoulder met. To mark, to claim the altmer as his. Martin imagined his Champion standing there throughout what would no doubt be a long and boring series of speeches and nonsense, hesitant to move in case armor and collar shifted and exposed the bruised flesh to all and sundry. Martin’s hands tightened where he had rested them on the altmer’s hips, and to his surprise a faint growl came from low in his throat.

Perhaps it was not the remnants of the foolish young man he’d been, but the dragon said to rest in the soul of all Septim’s that took pleasure in the thought.

“Martin…” His Champion’s voice wavered, but Martin was already pushing away. Now was not the time, when this was over he could finally have something selfish, something just for him, for them. Have his Champion wrecked and wanting beneath him, Martin’s to take and devour again and again. But not now, not when he must be calm and composed and stand through religious and societal ceremony before he was allowed to light the dragonfires. To close fast the gates of Oblivion and take the throne he didn’t desire. Oh, later would come the problems of succession, children, finding a wife who would both satisfy the ruling classes demands of him and Martin’s demands to keep his Champion as his lover. Today was their triumph, their hard won victory, and the sooner convention was appeased and order restored, the sooner they could truly relax.

He should have known it would all go to Oblivion the moment he felt secure.

The doors were not merely open now: they were **gone**. The walls between Oblivion and Tamriel destroyed, Daedra in the streets and Mehrunes Dagon himself looking for them. For Martin, the person holding the only thing that might put up a new wall. Blades died around them as they wove around gates, through crowds of panicking people and laughing dremora. His Champion’s bow sang, each arrow taking its target with uncanny precision, but it was not enough. Not enough to stem the tide, barely enough to get them to the Temple of the Divines. Martin stood there, looking at the dark braziers, knowing that relighting them now was pointless. They were meant to support the wall, re-enforce it with the living Emperor’s will, and there was no wall for them to do so with now. Nothing left to keep back the hungry void.

His hand closed around the Amulet of Kings at his neck.

A part of him screamed in rebellion. He had already sacrificed or been willing to sacrifice so much, must more be asked of him? He had given up his life as a priest, had wrestled with the Mysterium Xarxes until he thought his mind would shatter and he found himself conversing with hallucinations due to lack of sleep, had sent his Champion into mortal peril again and again. Would have taken up a throne he in no way felt he should be allowed, ruled a country that deserved better than a broken ex-Sanguine worshipper. Must he give up his very self, host the Time-Dragon and give up his mortal existence? Was there no other way?

“Martin? Martin, no.” His Champion looks at him, fear and panic in those fair eyes. A hand was raised as if to stop him, but Martin stepped back from it. No, the only other option was to let Mehrunes Dagon win, to allow Tamriel to become part of the Deadlands. He smiled at his Champion, wishing that he didn’t have to break the altmer’s heart.

“Martin, yes. I do what I must do. I cannot stay to rebuild Tamriel. That task falls to others. Farewell. You’ve been a good friend, in the short time I’ve known you. But now I must go. The Dragon awaits.” It was a final cowardice that he closed his eyes, cut off his vision of his Champion’s pleading face. He ran forward, to the center of the temple and stopped dead and prayed. As he heard Mehrunes Dagon break through the walls, he felt the answer. Martin couldn’t help the cry of agony as his blood burned, as the dragon within tore its way out and reshaped him into flame and power. He was Akatosh, Akatosh was Martin, and in his final moments of separateness he felt his Champion’s soul and sanity break. Then he was gone, all that was left of his mortal self the overpowering love for his Champion and his world that Akatosh felt.

The Dragon roared, and attacked.


End file.
